Built up only to collapse—your body over mine, into

mine, a hollow pentacle easily fallen into disrepair:

your tip still spilling as my body did drink. And if not
pentacle then star, therefore, dead by the time such distant

light makes clear that I am right to believe—you’re here; why
not?—that, for this while at least, witness is reason enough

to know I could touch, if I wanted, whatever I wanted. You
twinkle like a lullaby though more reliable; your afterfuck

joint the sole light on the patio. Red star. Flame brightens
then dulls its edge against your breath pulled up like a sheet.

I was mistaken—the sky is full of baby teeth luminescing,
teasing with late-arriving light. I want to be on time

when it is time, not sitting in my hunger for death like a doe
sucking on the last autumn leaf. Such impatience approaches

always-late, at different angles. I can tell when, exhausted,
your chronicling of night with smoke draws to a close:

brighter, brightest, then in orange phantoms to the ground
the final ashes of satisfaction. I’ve told you how you stink

of dying leaves, wet with rot and rotting faster in the wet
loam, after you’ve smoked out the sky. I am ready to go

to sleep but the stars, now without competition from your
herbed fire, seem brighter. Dead foliage cannot block

the up-sparks—finally, my hand unwrapping from around
your hips, extending toward the brightest, vibrating star.

Now it seems the whole sky is a shaking mess, lit ballpoints
crashing forward like trains off-schedule. Palm open, I block

them out. From here I can feel their rushing, tardy blaze. All
aboard. I cannot leave. I cannot stop looking at your face.